


jones

by Chiclet



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Multi, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiclet/pseuds/Chiclet
Summary: jōnznoun1. a fixation on or compulsive desire for someone or something, typically a drug; an addiction.verb1. have a fixation on; be addicted to.





	jones

You’ve felt this before, it’s nothing new.

You’ve done a little of this after all, a lot of that, a double handful more of those other things and you’ve played around with addictions like toys, picking them up and putting them down, breaking some and keeping others for reasons you like to call sentimental. Sometimes you like the taste in your mouth as it goes down and sometimes you don’t care so much for it as it comes back up but no matter what it feels like, touches likes, screams like, it’s just one voice in the cacophony and if you can’t have the red, well, there’s always the white lined up and waiting for its turn on your dance card.

The buzz rattles like sabres, your own personal hive of wasps; the thousand and one tiny little mouths biting, chewing, eating you alive underneath everything you do, driving you forward.

Yeah, you know a jones when you meet one. You’re a professional at this, engraved business card level for sure, maybe a glossy brochure and a corner office somewhere three blocks deep into uptown.  In your brighter duller moments you think it’s maybe more like blood brothers; just the spit on your hand and a sticky penknife in a treehouse - you and him and them making like you’ll be together forever and ever and ever amen, swear to die, stick a needle in your eye and in your arm and anywhere else you can reach, your bestest friend always because you've got the matching scars to prove it.

Too much green is the problem. Problem and answer, around and around. Too much _envy poison money greed_ and not enough of any other color in the crayon box they gave you, colors that sometimes you wonder if you ought to figure out, but you really don’t _care_ care, do you? You’ve never felt the need to break away from the pack, not when running in the middle of it gives you something to do every night that’s familiar and comforting because everybody likes what they already know. The lights and the sounds and the feelings smearing together like something hanging in a dead end museum, something that could be all those other things if you just squint hard enough.

It’s close enough to be close enough. Fast cars and slow mouths and the ceiling whirling like a thousand unseen stars and you’ll sleep when you’re dead or forget how to wake up because that’s just how it’s supposed to go, am I right or amirite?

But lately it’s been sharper. Sweeter. Harder, and you don’t know whether to giggle at the pun or not. Three times this month you’ve been back, hoping for another hit and three times you’ve gotten nowhere with the pusher. You want to howl with the unfairness because can’t they see you need it, that you’re willing to pay for it no questions asked, have to have it because you’ve got the damned monkey on your back now, haven’t you, good and solid, riding you hot and heavy but the fourth time’s the charm, isn’t that what they say?

As many times as it takes, you know how to make this work because you’re a pro and you hook up the phone calls and the texts and you sweeten the pot with bribes and _c’mon let’s go tonight maybe we’ll get lucky this time and we can always drink our faces off if we can’t score_ and who can resist the thrill of possibility?

Not you. Oh no, not you, oh no sir, not them either, please sir can we have another. You don’t know which type of green is going to get you what you want though so you assemble them all like a weird ass floral bouquet, the tall and thin and short and plump, blonde brunette redhead the soft and the hard and the shy and the brave and the reckless.

They swarm. Around you, around each other like mayflies, bouncing around like pinballs and if you don’t love them that’s alright because they don’t love you either and then you’re off to the races and you hope you hope you hope you can make it work this time because goddamn this jones is really turning out to be a bitch in high heels.

Lights and haze and the driving pulse of music that hits your bones like a sledgehammer. You want to love it and maybe you do because you love all the places that scream and because somewhere in this flexing mess is your fix. It feels like you’re flying still, pushing through the crowd, surfing on the heat, the flash of eyes and black ropes thrashing against pale skin and the throb of that animal heart growling somewhere under all the feet and you search and you search and you search, alcohol curling cool down your throat.

Dark cloth like smoke against black walls and you find him laughing; walking heroin, the itch under your skin, the ants biting in a frenzy along your bones, the desert in your mouth and you can drink the world dry, you know you can if only they’ll let you.

The top buttons of his shirt are undone, raw electric brushing the strong column of his throat. Blue and sparking just like the wire of sick anticipation in your veins, the copper in your mouth that reminds you of something else you took once upon a long time ago. Eyes gleam but never like his; smiling indulgently over the crowd like he owns them because he does, doesn’t he? The dark heart in the place he named for light.

Your fix. Your new habit, the craving you picked up without thinking twice about it and can’t seem to put down.

You want to ask and you want not to have to ask but you’re not the only one who needs to touch, to stand too close and you watch as he kisses a red mouth, murmurs against a coffee neck, drinks gold from the glass in his hand and you lick your lips like you can already taste it on his breath.

And you’re here finally and forever and so is he and his smile now is for you, in this heartbeat just for you, and you catch yourself on the sharp hooks of it because damn he’s pretty and you’re sure that you’ve never wanted anything else so badly before in your life. His sleeve is soft under your hand and his eyes are caught between flare and heat, watching his club tear itself apart over and over again in rhythm. You probably say please, you don’t even know anymore but you’ll die, you’ll just die if he turns you away for the fourth time because one of the horsemen of the apocalypse is definitely named withdrawal.

And he seems to know because fuck him and the orchestra he rode in on and his smile flashes out again, white as bone, and yeah, this is absolutely the best fucking jones you’ve ever had because you still don’t know which color he’ll take in payment. And the rest of trouble catches up then, mayfly manic with their own urges so carefully chosen to showcase yours and you’d be green and jealous if that might work but you don’t want to mess this up, not when you’re so close and he shouts his pleasure into the air.  
  
“What, again? All of you?” he teases.

The look in his eye is considering though and you hold your breath, put a sudden hand over his heart and the skin beats as hot as you remember through silk like water, your fingertips digging in like you want to dig for more. The arrested expression on his face that tells you he’s thinking about it which is more than you got the last three times.

He wraps long fingers into somebody else’s hair. Takes a kiss. Steals it maybe and the heat spills everywhere like a proximity mine, it’s that fantastic. The shudder in your spine connects to the center of the world.

Pusher and pushed, fix and fixer. The thing that gives and the thing that takes.

He shudders too as he pulls back and the world lurches with it in lockstep. A pattern of sand spikes on a pulsing speaker in the configuration of desire because he’s knocking back rest of his drink to make it disappear in the best magician’s trick ever and you couldn’t care less how because his arm slides bruising hard around you now, around the one he's just kissed and it’s a knot of vipers that spirals to the elevator then, writhing with need. A private party that doesn’t end until he says it does and fuck _yes_ , you’ll shine as hard and as long as he wants you to on the darkness of his sheets and hopefully you can wake up in the morning and be free of it for awhile.

“Well then,” he murmurs as his head tilts back, back to the wall with a wet mouth already at his throat under that brilliant smile, hands tangling, sliding against skin, tugging, pulling, baring, bruising. “Best get started, hadn’t we?”


End file.
